Hunter's Rage: Book 3 of The Civil War Chronicles (41 page)

The rider took off his cap in salute. ‘Aye, sir, with his compliments, and where might I find General Hopton?’

Richardson’s head was bare, and he lifted a hand to ruffle his close-cropped brown hair, wincing apologetically as he did so. ‘I am sorry to report, sir, that he is engaged further north with the main army.’ He offered an embarrassed shrug. ‘He could not linger here forever, you understand.’

One of Richardson’s men sidled up to the heaving horse and took the reins as the redcoat jumped down. ‘I suppose not, sir, but my report is for the general only.’

Richardson pursed his narrow lips and pulled at the brown bristles of his moustache. ‘And who rode all the way out to tell you to march to Beaworthy?’ he asked calmly.

The redcoat’s eyes darted left and right. ‘Y—You did, sir.’

Richardson smiled urbanely, and patted the infantryman on the shoulder. ‘Then you may pass your news to me, good fellow, for you know that to speak with me is to speak with Hopton himself.’

Some of the cavalrymen were gathering around the pair of them now, and the messenger’s shoulders seemed to sag in resignation. ‘Aye, sir, I’m sure you’re right.’

Richardson smiled again, flashing teeth he knew to be bright against his whiskers. ‘Good man!’ He glanced at one of his men. ‘Get this wise fellow a blackjack brim full of our best ale.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ the redcoat said, eyes still pinned open with intimidation.

‘No matter,’ Richardson waved away the thanks dismissively, deciding the man was now ripe for questioning. ‘They have located Cade?’

The rider shook his head. ‘Not exactly, sir.’

Richardson exhaled noisily, dropping the act of smooth charm in favour of something more direct. ‘Well spit it out, you dissembling numbskull.’

‘Cade is dead, sir.’

That stopped Richardson in his tracks. He thought for a moment that he would vomit. ‘Dead?’

‘Aye, sir. Ambushed and killed by brigands. But we have located his daughter. Captain Forrester and Mister Payne bring her here even now.’

‘Daughter?’ Richardson repeated absently. It was as though he could not see, could not think, beyond the realization that Sir Alfred Cade was dead. He felt swamped, trapped in a miasma of despair by this gut-wrenching news. ‘Christ, man,’ he muttered as the situation turned in his mind, ‘what use is she?’

The redcoat suddenly stepped closer. ‘Sir,’ he said, voice falling to barely a whisper, ‘she has the information.’

The miasma cleared. The painful pounding of Richardson’s heart was suddenly a soft murmur, twisted bowels easing back to comfort. ‘You’re—you’re certain?’

‘Aye, sir.’ He offered a non-committal shrug. ‘That is what I was told to tell General Hopton, sir. I am not privy to anything further.’

‘Of course not,’ Richardson replied distantly, his mind already tumbling thoughts like so many acrobats.

‘Sir?’

Richardson forced himself to look up. ‘Hmm?’

‘Might I ask,’ the messenger said, staring about the encampment curiously now that his information had been imparted, ‘which regiment these men are from?’

Richardson placed a hand firmly on the redcoat’s shoulder and steered him back towards his waiting mount. ‘I think we’re finished here, are we not?’

‘But, sir,’ the confused infantryman spluttered, ‘do I not have ale on the way?’

‘I’m afraid not, good man. Time’s of the essence, eh?’

‘Might I not stay a little while to rest?’ the redcoat complained, trying to shrug Richardson’s hand away.

Richardson stopped dead, fixing the redcoat with a blistering stare. ‘No, man, you may not. Be gone with you, and tell Payne and Forrester to bring Miss Cade to me forthwith.’

It was then that Richardson saw the redcoat’s eyes narrow as they fixed on a point just over his shoulder. He released his grip, turning to see what the man had noticed, only to catch a smudge of tawny over in the hedge line at the other side of the field.

‘Christ,’ Richardson hissed angrily, ‘but that man’ll be on a damned charge before the day is through, by God he will.’

The redcoat gaped, eyes darting between Richardson, his surly gang of cavalrymen, and the tawny sash. ‘Sir?’

Richardson sighed, rubbed his eyes in a tired manner, and stepped back. ‘I had hoped to avoid this, good fellow, you must believe me.’

The pistol cracked before the redcoat even knew it was at his temple. Its echo reverberated around the trees and hedges, sending all manner of birds skyward in fright. The messenger slumped to his knees, swayed there a moment, and crashed on to his face, the grass about his skull stained rapidly dark.

Torrington, Devon,
9
May
1643

Henry Grey, First Earl of Stamford, was examining a large map of south-west England at his expansive campaign table when his second-in-command, Major-General James Chudleigh, strode beneath the doorway’s high lintel.

‘How do you like my new billet, General?’

Chudleigh plucked the leather gloves from his hands and stuffed them into the crown of his upturned hat. He peered about the room, the wooden panelling shining brightly in the sunlight that streamed through the large windows. ‘Very much, my lord. You were on the upper floor before, were you not?’

Stamford nodded, indicating his left leg. It jutted out to the side of his chair, useless and inert. ‘The gout rages again. I am utterly trapped by it.’

Chudleigh was a young man, of reedy neck and willowy frame, yet his woollen coat, leather doublet, and dark green cloak gave him a formidably martial appearance. He looked down at the leg, noticing that Stamford’s pale hose were stretched tight by the swollen calf. ‘My sympathies, my lord, truly. It is an agonizing affliction.’

‘Jesu, but it is, James. Yet I have not summoned you to speak of such matters.’

Chudleigh ran a hand through his long hair in an effort to untangle the black curls that massed around his shoulders like shavings of jet. ‘I had thought not, sir.’

‘Firstly,’ Stamford said through teeth gritted against a sudden wave of pain, ‘I should like to know of the victuals for the men. Have the provisions been requisitioned?’

Chudleigh nodded, glancing out the window at the wisps of white cloud that drifted aimlessly above. Soon, he thought grimly, the clouds would be gritty, hot, and stinking of sulphur. ‘Aye, my lord.’

‘Provisions?’ came a new voice from the doorway.

Chudleigh turned to see a man of similar height and build to himself, though the flowing curls that had once been as black as his own were now distinguished by silver flecks. He stretched out his hand. ‘Are you well, Father?’

Sir George Chudleigh paced briskly into the room, spurred boots clomping loudly on the wooden floor. He shook his son’s hand warmly. ‘Well indeed, James. Well indeed. We have a fine army mustered.’ He removed his hat, bowing to Stamford. ‘My lord.’

Stamford smiled. ‘It heartens me to see you, Sir George. You will forgive me if I do not rise to greet you.’

‘Naturally, my lord,’ Sir George agreed as he and his son approached the earl’s table. ‘And I must beg your pardon for my tardiness, sir. My horse tripped and is lame.’

‘No matter,’ Stamford replied, shifting his rump in the creaking chair, a tiny yelp of pain escaping his mouth as he aggravated the immobile limb. He took a moment to compose himself, patted the wrinkles from his bright blue doublet before meeting Sir George’s brown eyes once more.

‘Now to business. We were speaking of the provisions, Sir George. We have ordered the garrisons hereabouts to send supplies from the towns. Some will provide meat, others milk, others bread. Barnstaple, for instance, has agreed to send biscuit, bacon, peas, and small beer.’ He grasped a scrap of paper from the cluttered desk and held it out for Sir George to take. ‘Here.’

Sir George studied the requisition order. ‘Send to Stratton,’ he read aloud, before looking up sharply. ‘Our target?’

Stamford nodded. ‘You have it.’

Sir George Chudleigh stared at the name on the paper once more before glancing across at his son. ‘You are aware that Stratton is Grenville’s heartland?’

‘His estates are thereabouts, aye,’ Stamford snapped hotly, clearly irked by the older man’s deferral to his son, ‘but the town itself shifts for the Parliament.’ He jabbed a finger at the place on the map marked
Plymouth
, and tracked an irregular ink line northward with his nail. ‘As you both know, the River Tamar forms the only natural barrier between Devon and Cornwall, and for many miles it is easily defended by the Cornish.’

James Chudleigh looked at his father. ‘The river rises in the north. It is the simplest crossing point.’

Stamford tapped a spot on the north coast labelled with the word
Stratton
. ‘This is where we must strike. We’ll make our base at Stratton itself, and it is there that Hopton will have to come and face us. It is there, gentlemen, that we will trap his army by the sea.’

Sir George took a deep breath, let it out gently, and whispered, ‘God be with us.’

‘God be with
us
, Sir George,’ Stamford corrected, pointing between himself and the younger Chudleigh.

Sir George’s brow rose at the intimation. ‘My lord?’

The earl propped a hand under his narrow chin. ‘Hopton knows we shall attack soon. And he knows we will likely outnumber him. To that end, he plans – according to my intelligencers – to raise a posse down at Bodmin as soon as he discovers the exact nature of our thrust.’

Sir George nodded, considering the words. ‘That would alleviate the disparity in numbers somewhat.’

‘Thus,’ Stamford went on, ‘said posse must never be allowed to form. And that is where I need you, Sir George, as my Commander of Horse. How many troopers do you have at your disposal?’

‘Twelve hundred, my lord,’ the older man answered smartly.

‘Then I want them tacked, saddled, and ready to ride for Bodmin. The moment we march upon Stratton, you will go south. You will surround that damned town and prevent High Sheriff Grylls from mustering a single man against us. Understood?’

‘Of course, my lord.’

James Chudleigh cleared his throat. ‘And we shall lead the main assault, my lord?’

Stamford’s gaze switched to the more youthful, if higher-ranked Chudleigh. He smoothed down his moustache for a few moments, as though he needed the time to choose his words. ‘The gout makes travel tedious and slow, General.’

Chudleigh dipped his head. ‘I do not doubt it, my lord.’

‘Consequently my presence with the army will prove only a hindrance.’ Stamford straightened, collecting up the assortment of parchment scrolls and paper that littered the table and bunching them into a neat pile. When he had laid them flat he looked up into Chudleigh’s expectant gaze. ‘You will therefore lead the van.’

Major-General James Chudleigh had expected as much from his commander. The Devonshire men held little respect for the earl. Like the Cornish, they were loyal to their own, but cared almost nothing for men such as Stamford or the politics that would drive them to battle. It was that knowledge, rather than gout, that meant the Chudleighs would lead Parliament to battle. Without them, Stamford knew that he could not guarantee his army’s loyalty. Chudleigh simply nodded quiet acceptance. ‘I understand, my lord.’

‘Then you have your orders, gentlemen,’ Stamford said curtly. ‘Sir George is to take the horse to Bodmin, while you, James, will lead our main advance towards Stratton. I will follow, naturally, and take personal command when eventually we face Hopton.’

‘And we will push him into the sea,’ said James Chudleigh.

Stamford smiled. ‘By God, that is precisely what we shall do, General. Him, Berkeley, Grenville,’ he hissed, slamming one fist into the palm of the other at the mention of each name, ‘Trevanion, Godolphin, Slanning, Basset, and the rest of those popish rogues. And the three of us will ride to Westminster and make a gift of the Cornish colours to John Pym himself, eh?’

But Major-General James Chudleigh was not listening any longer because he was saying a silent prayer. The invasion of Cornwall was underway. And he was going to battle.

CHAPTER 17

Near Beaworthy, Devon,
10
May
1643

Stryker’s column seemed to pick up its collective step as, just an hour after dawn, they finally spotted the funnels of smoke climbing above dense woodland about a mile to the west. Anthony Payne knew the country well, and had declared that the village lay just beyond that wood, and there, he was sure, they would find General Hopton.

It had been a strange conversation that had altered their course, reflected Stryker as he kept pace at the head of the snaking force. Payne had insisted on speaking with Cecily, the pair had then spent several minutes in hushed discussion with much nodding and gesticulating, and then, to everyone’s surprise they had approached Stryker together and informed him that he should lead his motley cohort not to Launceston but to Beaworthy.

‘I was sent to fetch her father,’ Anthony Payne, compelled by events to shed light on his shadowy mission, had explained when Stryker and Forrester took him to task beside the trickling moorland brook.